


coffee stains and chance encounters (the world will never be the same again)

by ThisUsernameTaken



Series: coffee stains & chance encounters [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Banter, Coffee, Fluff, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Roommates, it's cute I swear, let's pretend school in japan starts in autumn lET'S PRETEND-, oh my god they were roommates, oikawa's just a potty mouth (blame iwa-chan), regarding the rating nothing bad really happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 11:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18916417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisUsernameTaken/pseuds/ThisUsernameTaken
Summary: He’s spilled coffee and grey dawn, soft colors and sharp creases, multitudes in a single star. He is, altogether, an accident; what with their unfortunate collision round the bend, fumbling into air, into each other. Tooru never was one for corners.He is, altogether, an accident.(Or at least, that's how it all begins.)





	coffee stains and chance encounters (the world will never be the same again)

**Author's Note:**

> i uh-- wrote this in a day-- first time with these characters, too. take it. just take it.

He’s spilled coffee and grey dawn, soft colors and sharp creases, multitudes in a single star. He is, altogether, an accident; what with their unfortunate collision round the bend, fumbling into air, into each other. Tooru never was one for corners.  
  
The knock of shoulders, the sting of liquid, seeping wet and hot and burning through their clothes, into their skin. Sugawara Koushi was all of that; a startled yelp, horror even in an apologetic smile. And a spill of words to a flurry of napkins, shoved into his hands, procured from _absolutely nowhere, what the hell_ , even as he hurries away, coffee cup still in hand.

 

He’s spilled coffee and grey dawn, muffled curses as Tooru stands in shock in the morning wind, shakes himself free and walks against it, thinking nothing, thinking everything. He’s burnt, for one, rapidly heating, slowly cooling, shaking enough warmth into frozen fingers to fish out his phone and yell “can you _believe_ what happened to me this morning, Iwa-chan, _dammit_ \--”

 

(And he _does_ believe him, really. Hajime also believes in slow deaths and karma. Tooru meets the dial tone with an outraged squawk.)

 

He is, altogether, an accident.

 

(Or at least, that’s how it all begins.)

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck.”

 

He says this plainly and without fanfare, words point blank as they fall, graceless, over the floorboards.

 

Floorboards his assaulter is currently occupying, legs encased in sweatpants stretched out in the space between the beds on either side of the room. _Their_ two beds, Tooru’s mind supplies idly, even in disbelief; its other, volleyball oriented half running on memory, strategizing even as they spoke, spitting out facts on a player he’s never really known, hasn’t seen for a year. _Sugawara Koushi. Number 2. Setter_. Karasuno.

 

He looks up, cast in shadow from where Tooru stands prone in the doorframe.

“Oh, Oikawa-kun,” more from instinct than anything else, face flashing through recognition and disbelief, a bemused, half formed smile before his eyes flare wide and settle into horror.

 

Whether over the apparent fact that they’re _roommates_ , judging from the key round Tooru’s fingers, its match strewn on the floor, or their morning encounter he’s only just beginning to place, and he _still smells of coffee, goddammit,_ a stain on his slacks to match, he doesn’t know, but the urge to stamp his foot is increasing by the second.

 

Still, he can practically hear Hajime yelling to be polite, the tight hum of his mother as she picks through his facade and sets him straight. He’s also got a _shred_ of maturity and self preservation on his own, thanks.

 

“Ah, my apologies, Refreshing-kun,” Tooru smooths over, the old nickname falling unbidden. He looks around, sets his hands on his hips with a sigh. “It’s just that all these dorm rooms look the _same_. Well! I’ll be excusing myself, best get my luggage--” and he’s turning around to leave, he really is, when--

 

“Wait! Please, O-Oikawa.” And he looks back, head over his shoulder, to where the other boy’s scrambled to his feet, arm half stretched out as his papers fly out around him.

 

Upon meeting his eyes, it falls limp to his side, slack as his face. “Ah.”

Tooru raises a brow, and he draws up straight, hand to the back of his neck, blinking as if he hadn’t expected him to stop.

 

“I don’t mean to be forward,” and Tooru swears he can hear the faint mutter of _though it’s a bit late for that_ he hides under his breath. “I don’t mean to be forward, but I thought we’d-- introduce ourselves? Past our former acquaintance, I mean.” And oh, here he smiles, brown eyes cast gold in the shitty overhead lights, dancing with mischief.   
  
“What do you say to coffee?” And Tooru wants to scoff, shoot something light, something airy, barbed and meant to sting. But the words stick in his throat, even as he looks down, and Suga- Refreshi- his _roommate_ \-- has the gall to up and _wink_.

 

“My treat.”

 

* * *

 

The brew slips past his teeth, over his tongue, down his throat with something like warmth and bittersweet, close to burning.

 

Sugawara (Suga-chan, Tooru’s decided in his head) sits opposite him, pale fingers, slim and strong, steepled over his own cup. He looks content, for the most part, ankles crossed under the table, a light scarf tucked up to his ears as he hums something soft and tuneless. Tooru narrows his eyes at him over the rim of his coffee.

 

For all his sweet exterior, Tooru knew his nature on the court; rallying his teammates the moment he stepped foot on the hardwood, basic serves with intent like steel cutting holes in the opposition. And of course this was ridiculous. Suspecting a guy he’d never play against again. _Karasuno. Number 2. Setter._ The enemy.

 

His neck jerks up sharply, as if pulled, at the affirming hum, just across. Suga-chan meets his eyes, lit with mischief and something else, something calculating, even as his lips purse around the rim, musing nothings into ceramic. He sets it down. “Seijoh. Captain. Setter,” he mimics, not unkindly, and Tooru goes still. _Shit_.

 

He smiles around the last part, eyebrow raised. “I wouldn’t know about enemy, though.” And he lets Tooru splutter thin air for a moment, _damn him_ , before continuing, twirling a finger in the air. Around a key. Apologetic, “I don’t mean to rub it in, or open old wounds, or anything like that.”

 

Ink fringed lashes dip down, look him in the eye. “But I do hope to get along, at least. Hence, coffee.” A sweep of his hand, over their beverages, over them. Winces. “And I really am sorry about this morning.”

 

Tooru gapes at the sincerity, blinks himself into charm with a flick of his fingers. “Apology accepted, Suga-chan!” and oh, he absolutely _delights_ in how his nose scrunches, silently mouthing to himself in incredulity, _Suga-chan_?

 

He props his elbows on the table, leans forward. Drawls, “ _Although_ , I must insist.” And the other’s eyes crinkle as he plops his chin into his hands, blinks up at him prettily. “Oh?” he says with all the innocence of a _flirt_ , tilting closer. “And what’s that?”

 

“Laundry duty. You. Two months.” He says this with his biggest smile yet, all teeth and dripping sugar. “The professor asked about coffee. _All_. _Lecture_.”

 

The moment broken, Suga sniffs, sits back. “Well, you’re certainly _bitter._  You wound me. Free apology coffee and now _this_ ,” in melodramatic flair Tooru’s only ever heard from himself. “Ah, well,” he sighs, smile suddenly sweet. “Fair’s only fair.”

 

And somewhere, somewhere, buried under snark and sugar, banter and bets, lies a truce, a shake of hands, setter to setter in the hook of their fingers, the catch in their throats as offense melts into laughter, into evening and cloud and sky.

 

He is, altogether, an accident.

  
(But he’s also soft sweaters and melted silver, and the man that just agreed to do their -- and Tooru’s stomach flips at the implications -- laundry for two months. So.)

 

He is, altogether, an accident. And Suga throws his head back and _laughs_ , a soft swoop of silver and a smile that creases round the corners, beauty mark Tooru can only think to kiss. And Suga throws his head back and laughs, splits Tooru’s face in two from his own, something warm and uncertain dropping low in his chest. They’ll make this work yet.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm honestly willing to write more, make it a series?? just say smth specific and send me running-- or yanno. say anything at all.


End file.
